Fooling Around

Dear Serious Artist,
Y'know, I got into this blogging thing because of the nutty knitters who blog, such as Stitchy McYarnpants and Yarn Harlot, two of the funniest blogs around. I also got clued into Mason-Dixon Knitting and those two gals are heee-sterical.
What I want to know is why are we, artistic quilters so darn dull? Is it because we have a 'serious artist' reputation to live up to? Geesshh!
I declare! as Fog Horn Leghorn would have said, get your butts out of the dead zone and start talking like the real wimmen that y'all are.

I will begin.

As a youth I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to look like the cover of Seventeen Magazine, in hopes of someday attracting a boy. (Humming: Someday my prince will come). That just shows you how hopelessly over the hill I am. Girls of 14 today are trying their damnedest to look like ultra cheap hookers, lest they be mistaken for virgins.
I just wish some older and wiser woman would have taken me aside then and previewed life as it truly is today.
I got that boy, even though he is chronologically 50 years of age.
I have since retired from that"Come Hither" game. I wear a nice pair of pajamas to bed with hand knit socks on my feet and a hand knit hat on my head. I get up early, 5:30 am and reheat yesterday's coffee in the microwave for us to drink in silence on the living room couch while I read my email. He totters off for a shower and returns all sparkly and shaved and gives me the 'eyebrows'. You know that look. I know that look. I put down the laptop and follow him off to the redbed.

Now, I haven't brushed my teeth yet, and my hat is covering my head, and not in a jaunty way, and I refuse to undress, which he doesn't expect. He doesn't care if I am attractive, as long as I am willing. So I ask you, " Where's the ROMANCE?"

Intermission

I am not asking for romance at this hour of the morning, don't get me wrong. But why is it never mentioned in any of our future-wife-in-training courses that this is what really goes on in marriage? And that's only the sex part...

I travel a lot and find that my husband is content to make himself a bowl of pasta every night that I am away, from jarred meatless spaghetti sauce. He no doubt eats it standing up at the sink. He may vary his diet with a frozen pizza and NEVER touches the instant salad in a bag that lies in wait in the refrigerator. When I return, I am barely off the plane when he asks "What have you got in mind for dinner" like I should be thinking about feeding him as my first priority.
Arrrggghhh. Once, just once would I like to hear that he is taking me somewhere for a nice meal, a place he has already scouted out and knows I would like. This will never happen.

On the good side, he does take out the garbage without a mention from me, and he washes his own laundry, and changes the oil in my car whenever it needs it, but... he always asks me if I paid the bills. Mind you, he cannot write a check without tearing up the first one because he filled it out wrong, but he still feels that I must be slacking in the bills paying department. OK , so one time seven years ago I forgot to pay the second installment of our property taxes and had to pay a 23 dollar late fee. One goof, one time! Geeesh.

I work at home and sometimes the house shows a certain lack of attention. I have negotiated a cleaning woman and then he changed his mind because I was paying her $60 for two hours. He calculated how much he gets paid and had a minor meltdown. HE WOULD CLEAN THE HOUSE FOR THAT AMOUNT OF MONEY. Yeah, right. That lasted one week and in the interim I lost the only cleaning lady willing to come out to my neck of the woods. Grrrr.

Add to that the new role-playing game of Vindictive/Martyr he has adopted. This is how it plays out. Guests are coming for dinner and I have done the whole gourmet cooking thing, including flowers, wine, tablescape etc. From him I ASK NICELY for a vacuum and floor washing. Just a damp mop will do. Wipe up the wine drips that's all, while I shower and get glamourous. I return to find him on his hands and knees with bucket ( we have several new mops, including a Swiffer)
doing his best Cinderella imitation. Immediately I am overcome with guilt, as least I was the first time he did this. Now I get the message. Wifey don't play dat anymore.

I am no saint. I don't even qualify for nice gal most days, but hey we aren't talkin' bout me are we?

end of intermission.

He now has a smile on his face, a corpus chocked full of endorphins and he is off to cut the mustard for another day, thanks to me. Sigh. Ain't love grand?